


enigmatic, innocuous

by greymadder (whatisausername)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian's Past, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatisausername/pseuds/greymadder
Summary: He felt like an enigma, shrouded in mist and protected, invincible and leaning over a mug and sharing breaths with someone he barely knew. It treaded the line between intimate and reticent, and Dorian liked the way the man let himself be played like an Orlesian lyre - not unaware of and not against the way Dorian leaned in ever closer.





	

The Circle in Vyrantium had been a mess. Dorian didn't want to talk about it.

His peers back at the Circle wouldn't recognize him now. The Dorian they knew was one full of wit and flare, who tilted his chin up and smirked when he spoke, and carried himself with a swagger that was as much challenging as it was confident. He was the alter ego who had sprung forth with the sudden freedom of not having his father's eyes on him like shackles on his wrists.

He was the Dorian who had shattered like glass when his father merely held him at arm's length upon his return, shaking his head sadly and turning away.

Dorian felt himself wilting, feeling his confidence crumble like sand and slip out between his fingers. He'd forgotten how much it hurt, how much pain the desperate need for approval truly entailed. Dorian felt shame, now; hand in hand with embarrassment, and sharing a drink with self-loathing.

In the last few days he'd become quiet again, taking his meals alone in his quarters, slipping around the grounds unheard, listening for something that would let him know what fate his father had in store for him - another Circle, he assumed. Perhaps his father would finally send him to Minrathous, where the Order of Argents would whip him into shape with their "strict Andrastian discipline".  Dorian had laughed wryly at the thought, though only after swallowing the lump in his throat.

He hoped he'd be sent back to Vyrantium. Dorian could - would - apologize, make a show of it. He was good with theatrics. He wanted to be as far away from Qarinus as possible, away from his father, and -

 _"I heard Master Pavus has sent word for a private tutor for the boy."_ One servant had whispered to another.

_"No doubt he wants to keep him close, especially after the stir he caused in Vyrantium."_

Dorian's fingers curled against the stone wall, nails scraping painfully as he felt his heart drop into his stomach. A sudden urgency to fly away, to run, filled his gut and drowned out his better judgement. He turned on his heel and dashed out, leaving only the sound of footsteps echoing softly in the corridor.

\-----

The mage tugged the brim of his hood further down to shade his brow, weaving through the throngs of people that filled the streets of dockside Qarinus. Here, the smell of brine and sea filled Dorian's nostrils, and he felt free. He heard the sound of a hundred other feet trampling over stone and wood, of people chattering like birds, a raspy chortle, and the thud of cargo being unloaded from the ships. He didn't relish it long; he knew danger lurked among the dockworkers and mercenaries and lowlives who languished outside the city walls, and he knew it preyed specifically on the naive and oblivious. 

Dorian continued on, though not for long as he quickly reached a spot where a smaller road diverged. He followed it, and found himself standing before a rather shoddy establishment. The smell of ale and old leather, with perhaps a bit of cinnamon, was not entirely unwelcome as Dorian pushed aside the beaded silk curtains. The tavern was lively enough, a few patrons boisterously spilling laughter all over themselves along with their drinks, and others more tame, sipping quietly. A few men in particular were pouring over a woman who was certainly not the prettiest Dorian had ever encountered.

"I 'eard that one's a Grey Warden, lookin' for recruits," One of them slurred, pointing with his mug and sloshing ale and froth all over his tunic, "The Warden from Weissh-sh-shit." He laughed hard, slamming his mug back against the counter, and covering his mouth with his sleeve. "Y'know, you're about four ages too late, Warden!"

"Nooo!" Another one boomed, "I think I saw a few Darkspawn earlier today in the market. They were buyin' some fruit, and tryin' on silks!"

"That was just your ugly wife, you idiot." The first man snorted, before he ducked a rather lazily-thrown punch. The man screwed his face up, before he burst out laughing as well.

"I'll jam the tip of my boot so far up your Deep Roads you'll shit out your mouth, you bastard." He barked drunkenly, chuckling as he shoved the man’s shoulder a bit too hard.

Dorian carefully skirted around as their playful and vulgar banter continued, making his way to the corner of the tavern where an older man was tucked away, half-shadowed by the staircase. He sipped carefully on a mug of something steaming, his brow furrowed as he pointedly ignored the men to his side. Quietly, Dorian slipped beside him, leaning against the counter with one arm.

His eyes traced over the man's profile for just a moment. The older man's skin was light but weathered, with faint wrinkles patterning just at the corners of his eyes, which stared directly forward, dark and untelling. His brow was equally dark, traces of grey mingling with dark brown, same as the thick locks that were swept carelessly back, away from his face.

"Are you really a Grey Warden?" Dorian asked as he ran his fingers through his hair, letting the hood fall back and pool around his shoulders.

"No." He deadpanned. The mage pursed his lips, not quite knowing how to respond. His interest was piqued, something to distract him from the nagging feelings in the back of his mind - the entire reason he'd come here in the first place.

"So you've never fought Darkspawn, ridden a griffon, nothing?"

"Not even once."

"A shame. Here I was thinking I'd buy you a real drink while you bored me with tales of your exploits." Dorian came smugly, though his voice dripped with feigned nonchalance. He turned as if to leave - if Dorian couldn't lose himself in conversation with an intriguing stranger, than he'd just do it in a mug of ale instead.

Of course, that wouldn't be necessary, if he had anticipated correctly. By the feeling of a calloused hand catching his wrist, he knew he had. Dorian swallowed a grin, feeling far more bold and confident than he had in weeks.

"I could be convinced."

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short drabble, which at one point would've been something more than this. I've considered continuing it, and maybe I will--but i liked what I had too much to just let it rot away in my drafts folder. Please comment and kudos, I love feedback.


End file.
